


all this, and love too, will ruin us

by salazarsslytherin (dust_ice_fire)



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, M/M, Pre-show, gerard finds out
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-07
Updated: 2014-09-07
Packaged: 2018-02-16 10:33:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,044
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2266458
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dust_ice_fire/pseuds/salazarsslytherin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Chris’ head is spinning; he feels sick, he feels detached, he feels like he’s drowning.  He can’t look away from Peter, whose fearful eyes have locked on him and refuse to move away.</i>
</p><p>  <i>“Maybe you don’t recognise him like this,” Gerard suggests, stepping towards Chris and holding out a baton, shoving it hard at his chest when he doesn’t immediately take it.  “You know what to do, son.”</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	all this, and love too, will ruin us

There's a thrill amongst the hunters as they move out, slipping excitedly between the trees in the Preserve, guns and bows in hand and humming with the knowledge of  _prey_. Chris follows on his father's heels, not sure what's gotten everyone into such a frenzy, not sure why his father is smirking quite like that, not sure why today is any different from all the other times they've come out here to find one of their snares has caught something, but taking part all the same. That's what he does; he's a hunter, for the moment. He's a hunter until the day Peter graduates high school, and then they're both gone. It's only a few more months.

His gun is cold and solid in his hand, loaded with wolfsbane bullets and there's a quiver of arrows across his back. His boots crunch over leaves and fallen twigs as he picks his way after his father and the handful of hunters who've joined them at Gerard's behest, come to watch the show.

Chris isn't sure why he isn't more nervous; they're in the Preserve, right on the edge of Hale territory, but the Hales aren't stupid enough to get themselves caught. Chris knows the location of every snare they've set, so Peter knows the location of every snare they've set; they're all safe. He suspects they're out here for the omega that's been rumoured to be around town; Peter had mentioned that Talia had spoken with him and found that he wasn't planning on sticking in Beacon Hills for long, so the pack saw no need to interfere with him unless he overstepped any boundaries.

The hunters, of course, don't work on such terms. Chris knows that if the omega's been caught, agreement with Talia Hale or not, he'll die tonight.

Only, when he moves into the spot of the forest where their snare is usually set, he finds it empty but for trees and the hunters move through without pause. His heart begins to hammer, a sense of wrongness settling over him and Chris stumbles as a root catches his ankle, just barely keeping his balance as he staggers on legs that are fast going numb with fear.

He can see a figure up ahead, hanging from the branches of a tree by thick rope wound around their wrists. The figure's flailing, skinny legs kicking out as the first hunters draw near, jeering and laughing, but they don't connect. Chris pauses and someone jabs him between the shoulders, forces him onwards until he's in the clearing and stops dead because it's Peter.

And he'd known that it would be, somehow, but that doesn't make it any easier to accept.

Peter's strung up by his wrists, teeth elongated into fangs, eyes flashing as he twists and struggles against the wolfsbane-infused rope that's caught him but he can't get free; he won't - the only way to get down from one of those is to be cut down.

Gerard's smile is cruel as he turns it onto Chris and he  _knows_.

"Well, well," he drawls, pacing a lazy route in front of the captured wolf, just out of reach of Peter's valiant attempts at kicking him. "What do we have here?" Gerard's gaze moves back to Chris and he cants his head, expression innocently curious. "Perhaps you could introduce us, Christopher?"

Chris' head is spinning; he feels sick, he feels detached, he feels like he's drowning. He can't look away from Peter, whose fearful eyes have locked on him and refuse to move away.

"Maybe you don't recognise him like this," Gerard suggests, stepping towards Chris and holding out a baton, shoving it hard at his chest when he doesn't immediately take it. "You know what to do, son."

Chris is shaking his head, lets the baton fall from numb fingers. He leans over and throws up all over the leaves at his feet and the sound of laughter from the hunters fades into a disjointed buzz somewhere in the distance.

Gerard hums like he'd expected exactly that and draws a gun, aims it at Peter's head. "Christopher," he says firmly. "Show us the face he wears when he's with you, or I am going to put a bullet through it." He nudges the baton back towards Chris with the toe of his boot and waits silently for the young hunter to stoop and pick it up with shaking hands.

"I can't," Chris rasps.

"You will."

Chris turns to his father, eyes wide and pleading, but Gerard is unmoveable, and Chris doesn't doubt that his father will put a bullet through Peter's head if he doesn't comply. He looks at Peter, and almost splits apart there and then when he catches the wolf's gaze; his eyes are shining with fear but there's no anger there, not while he's looking at Chris. His expression is almost soft, despite the shift, and he nods once, shortly.

 _It_ _'_ _s okay_.

Chris closes his eyes, presses the button and winces as the snap of electricity rings out. He screws up his face, pulls in a breath and then opens his eyes because Peter deserves that much, at least. With his eyes open, Chris can see how terribly his hand shakes when he extends it towards Peter's chest, and he knows the wolf can hear his erratically thumping heart as it rattles about between his ribs.

He doesn't want to draw it out, but he can't force himself to close the last inch of distance, either, can't bring himself to torture Peter like this - it's  _Peter;_  he can't, he  _can_ _'_ _t_.

Then the click of Gerard's gun's safety being turned off has Chris gritting his teeth and staring into Peter's eyes, hoping that the wolf can read all the apologies there before he jams the rod into him, holding it in place as Peter tries in vain to throw himself backwards, tips his head back and howls at the treetops and the unforgiving stars overhead. Peter's foot catches him on the hip as he writhes, his howls becoming human screams as the electricity drives the wolf back beneath his skin.

Chris is crying his fucking eyes out, he's sobbing so hard that when he staggers back from Peter it's to be sick again, each heave accompanied by a fresh wave of hot tears. He drops the baton and kicks it, hard, to disappear somewhere amongst the trees, forcing himself upright and drawing in laboured breaths as he stands there, numb, shaking his head in disbelief.

Peter is hanging limply now, breathing hard, struggling with each one because the way he's suspended puts too much pressure on his ribs, but he stares Gerard down as the hunter draws a sword.  _The_  sword.

"This is the face the monster wore when he seduced my son," Gerard declares, turning away from Peter to look out at the hunters he's gathered.

Chris stumbles closer, legs shaking, and Peter's head rolls between his shoulders to look at him. Impossibly, his lips twitch. "It's okay," Peter breathes, voice wrecked, and the wind carries the words right to Chris like they thought he wouldn't understand the look on Peter's face without them.

And it is - it is okay. It's okay for Peter. He doesn't mind; it's going to hurt, because this is It. This is the big one; Argents don't fuck around - they will kill him right here, right now, and there's no stopping that. But he doesn't mind, because Christopher's face will be the last thing he sees and really, what more can he want from his life than that? It's okay.

Chris is shaking his head again, staring at Peter and wishing his eyes would stop blurring over with tears because he wants to  _see_  him. See him before- but no. No. He can't let this happen, he  _won_ _'_ _t_ let this happen.

Gerard's attention is on his hunters, he's talking about Peter, he's talking about Chris, about  _them_  and Chris doesn't know how he found out. He doesn't care. Doesn't have time to care because Gerard turns and tips his chin up, raises the sword and his eyes are hard and determined.

"We hunt those who hunt us," he recites coldly.

The sword glints in the starlight and the forest goes still for a moment; even the trees stop breathing to watch, only the sword never comes down, because Chris lunges at his father and crashes against him, taking them both to the floor.

By some miracle, he doesn't end up impaling himself on the sword - Gerard lets it go in favour of slamming a fist into the side of Chris' head, shoving him over so he can pin his son down and grab him by the neck.

"You value this beast over  _me_?" he bellows, and flecks of spit dot Chris' face with the force of his father's rage. "You are an  _Argent_." He punctuates each word with another blow and Chris can feel blood sliding back down his throat, can feel his teeth loosen in his gums, can feel his skin turn bruised and puffy already, but he won't give up, not on Peter.

He steels himself as Gerard pulls back to hit him again and takes the opportunity to throw his head forward, smacking his forehead hard against his father's and bringing his knee up fast when the older man jerks backwards in surprise.

Chris uses the movement to his advantage, swinging his hips around to scramble out from beneath his father's weight, grabs Gerard by the shirt until they're both staggering to their feet and Chris is a begging, pleading mess; he's fucking pathetic but he can't help it.

"Please, Gerard -  _Father_  - please, let him go,  _please let him go_ , please, I'll do anything, I'll do  _anything_  you ask,  _everything_  you ask, just please don't do this,  _you don_ _'_ _t have to do this_." He's barely aware of the words passing his lips, full of his own thumping heart and hot pulse, pounding through his ears and drowning out Peter's own, ' _Christopher, no!_ ' and the sounds of the other hunters. He has his hands fisted in Gerard's shirt, he's shaking him with every plea and holding on so tightly his knuckles are white, but if he loosened his grip even a little he knows his knees would give way beneath him.

Gerard's expression is closed off, quietly furious, and Chris squeezes, tightening his grip on his father and imploring every single star above his head to grant this one wish, even though it's not  _fair_. It's not fair that if he were to get a wish, he has to waste it wishing his father wouldn't kill Peter. It's not fair that anything other than violence and misery and lines drawn in the dirt was never on the cards for them. It's not fucking  _fair_  that they're not allowed a happily ever after, but Chris will settle for less; he'll settle for just  _after_ , for just Peter living past today. That's all they were ever going to get.

"His eyes are  _golden_ ," he points out, hoarse. "His eyes aren't blue, this isn't the  _Code -_ he's never hurt anyone."

"He will," Gerard says surely, no hint of doubt in his voice while Chris' wavers, emotional and cracking on every word.

" _Please_ ," he whispers desperately, and he pushes forward a step, forcing Gerard further away from Peter, blocks his view of the wolf with his own body. "I'll do anything, I swear."

Gerard's expression is calculating, terrible in its detachment, because when he looks at Chris it doesn't feel like he's being looked at by his father. In fact, it feels a lot like being sized up by a  _wolf_ , but Chris has been frightened of Gerard for years, now. This, at least, is nothing new.

"Anything," Gerard repeats the promise as though it's a fine joke. " _Anything_ , he tells me, after refusing for months to step up and be a  _true_  Argent. I wonder," Gerard continues, and he raises his voice so Chris knows that this little speech is meant for the hunters to hear, "what he thinks I might want from him? What do you think, Christopher? What do I want from you?"

There's a pause and it's clear that the man actually expects an answer. Chris flounders; his head jerks in surprise and he seeks whatever rational thought is left inside his skull after seeing Peter like this, after  _torturing_  him with his own fucking hand. The same hand that's pried Peter open and jerked him off, the same hand that's carded fingers through that dark hair, the same hand that's been tangled with Peter's in the secret dark of the theatre.

He's going to be sick again, Chris can feel it in the way his stomach turns, but he swallows hard and forces it back down. "You want me to be a hunter," he says quietly. "Be an Argent."

"Of course I want that; that's why I've been trying to train you, boy," Gerard says. "I want you to  _embrace_  it."

Gerard's barely finished speaking before Chris is agreeing, the words fast over his lips. "I will," he promises. "I'll train harder than ever before, I'll do nothing else, I swear."

"You'll forget this scum," Gerard instructs calmly, eyes flicking over Chris' shoulder to the wolf suspended there, fighting to get sufficient oxygen to his lungs even as his body forces itself to maintain consciousness, to attempt to heal while battling the trickle of wolfsbane bleeding into him through the cuts on his wrists. "You won't ever look at him again. You won't even  _think_  about him."

Chris is nodding, numb. "Yes, of course," he whispers, though his voice still shakes. God, this hurts. There's something inside him splintering, rending itself separate and flaying Chris open from his heart outwards. "I'll do anything. Just please don't hurt him."

The fingers twisted into Gerard's shirt are limp but his father makes no attempt to attack Peter again, his focus devoted entirely to Chris.

"You'll marry as I say you should, to a family worthy of our name. A woman. You'll continue the line."

Chris hears, distantly, Peter's sharp but short moan of horror at that, but he ignores it - he has to ignore it.

"Of course," he agrees blankly, and he tips his head to look his father in the eye, knowing that there's no hiding the blatant pain written all across his face but wanting to make sure he has Gerard's gaze, his unwavering oath. "So long as you let him go."

Gerard nods, once, and steps back. Chris' hands fall away to hang by his sides, useless, and he wishes he could feel empty so he wouldn't feel the fire that's sliding along his ribs and crawling up his throat.

There's a moment - one, wild moment - when Gerard picks up the sword again and lifts it, slices it through the air and Chris thinks he's going to do it after all, and he's too late to stop it. Chris flinches, a scream already at his lips and he's frozen, waiting for the warm splatter of blood and the wet thunk of a body being cleaved in two, but it never comes.

There's a groan and a thump, a hiss of pain and when Chris looks, Peter's crumpled on the damp forest floor and Chris collapses with him.

Peter's muttering something, his voice low and ragged, and Chris has his hands on the wolf's face, gripping and stroking,  _memorising_  as his tears bead along his eyelashes and drip off his nose to splash on Peter's cheeks. He wants forever - he wants to demand that eternity present itself to him in this very moment so he can take the whole of time and devote it to making sure he knows enough of Peter that he will  _never_  forget.

The swathe of pale skin, tight over sharp cheekbones, and the dark hair that Peter curses because  _it never falls right, Christopher_  and Chris just laughs and ruffles it. Peter hates that, but he's never mad for long - not at Chris. His eyes, usually so starkly blue you find yourself questioning the ocean for daring to call itself the same, now glowing with beautiful, golden innocence. His lips - God, his fucking  _lips_. Chris' finger traces the lower, gently, but he's yanked away by his collar and a sob tears itself through his throat as he's wrenched to his feet.

" _Move_ ," Gerard directs, and drags Chris until he's forced to stumble along with him on legs that won't stop shaking, legs that threaten to unhinge at any moment and deposit him to the ground.

"Father,  _no_ ," he gets out, both words broken by the hysterical breaths that hitch through them because they're marching away and Peter's still tied up, covered in wolfsbane and shaking with the aftershocks of the baton and Gerard is going to just  _leave_  him there, but Chris keeps walking. He  _has_  to keep walking even though he can't fucking  _breathe_  and there's nothing inside him that feels whole any more. He keeps walking because walking out of Peter's life is the only way to keep him alive.

Chris still staggers, though, because there's something somewhere in the vicinity of his heart that insists it would be better to go back; they can die together. That would be better than  _this_. And it's amongst the jumbled thoughts of stay or go and hurt or die that Chris realises what Peter was saying, what he was muttering over and over as he lay shivering on the forest floor.

_Love you love you love you-_

Because he knew he'd never have another chance to say it.

And Chris sobs, trips; his legs won't work, he can't keep going, he can't keep on after this but he has to. He  _has_  to. For Peter.

He wishes he could summon the words themselves, wishes they wouldn't hurt too much to push past his lips because it's too late now and it already hurts so much. So he summons another truth instead and drags it through his teeth as his father shoves him forward, shoves him away; the words barely grace his lips, but Chris knows Peter will hear anyway. He'll understand.

"I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."


End file.
